


An Unnecessary Freezing of Water

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Cold, Cold Weather, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Mycroft's POV, Protective Mycroft, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-19
Updated: 2010-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Mycroft Holmes hates snow. For some very definite reasons. Or does he?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 6





	An Unnecessary Freezing of Water

**Author's Note:**

> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.  
> (It also has some _ancient_ art of mine. Oof. XD)
> 
>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ Sorry for the late post, but I was busy doing something special for this little story - you'll see. Also, I do know it is not exactly Christmas, and not even winter anymore, but this ficlet was left lying around and getting lonely, therefore I post it now. :D Remember to leave comments!  
> Warnings: sickness, some sarcasm and mild swearing  
> Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.Betaed by med_cat - Thanks!

_A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water._

\- Carl Reiner

* * *

As a child, I had developed such a dislike for snow that it could hardly be surpassed. The white, wet nuisance always came overnight and in such quantities that it engulfed the house of my parents quite thoroughly, leaving us with the choice to climb out of the window into the cold air or not at all. I always preferred the latter.

Else, it came by day, and developed quickly into a grown-up blizzard that not only trapped us in the house, but within the space of a few square feet around the fireplace. Luckily, little brother and I had not to share with our father. Or maybe it wasn't luck at all. Being trapped in one room with Sherlock for any length of time is punishment enough. 

Not that I cherished the walks in the icy air, anyway. The feeling that one's lungs are being ripped apart by tiny needles of ice is not one that I enjoy. 

It was all Sherlock's fault. Little, over-active brother mine loved the snow, every microscopic flake of it. He did not only built snowmen, but took it upon himself to become the foremost champion in the art of throwing snowballs in the area. Not that he had much competition anyway, with the exception of my poor self – however, I preferred to see him bombard the trees with snow rather than sneak our father's gun out of his office for target practice. 

Most of the colds I ever had in my youth were Sherlock's fault, and his entirely. Without him, I would never get myself soaked to the skin. Rather to my delight, he always suffered the same plight, although we quickly learned to be on our guard.

The situation changed when I moved to London. Snow occurred less frequently, not in these horrendous quantities at the very least. The street urchins used up most of it, erecting grinning snowmen at every corner. For once, I found I could relax when I set foot outside, certain that Sherlock seldom visited and was therefore unlikely to attack me. Even after he took lodgings in London, he hardly passed through Pall Mall. 

Once, something wet hit me on the back of my neck as I turned the corner towards Whitehall. No one was in sight. I knew it had been him anyway – he had had the good grace and the wit to disappear before I managed to whirl around on the slippery pavement. 

* * *

One freezing December morning, I scarcely made it into the Diogenes before Hell broke loose. I felt like I had travelled back into my childhood. A perfect blizzard had the town in its white grip, and in a matter of minutes, Pall Mall was blocked by masses of snow. No soul was to be seen through the still closely falling flakes. 

I almost thought my eyes were failing me when I spotted someone coming down the road in such a gale, carrying a small bundle under his arm. For heaven's sake, he was not even wearing an overcoat! 

I could have sworn that it was one of those poor wretches who were so dim-witted that they would not survive the winter. Not such a winter, anyway. 

The local churches and the numerous bridges usually ensured the survival of some of them, not to mention the numerous empty houses that were certain to be crowded on days as this. Whatever had convinced this fellow to leave his shelter, it would be his death. 

I felt no pity for him – any man who was stupid enough to be outside without a coat in a snowstorm was no longer in his right mind. A generous sum for those wretches had already been collected both at Whitehall and at the club. 

I wondered briefly if I should stay in the suite of rooms I had obtained as a founding member rather than go home, but the decision was an easy one. I would not try struggling against the falling frozen water, not even as far as across the street. The rooms were small, but the bed was quite comfortable, not to mention the armchairs. Still, I would remain here for a while longer – no room at the club offered a better view than the Strangers' Room. 

The man outside stumbled and fell. By now, he was certainly soaked to the skin. No, that poor fellow would not survive the week. Through the snow, it even seemed almost as if he had seen me, was looking up at the window – just a moment!

He had started for the door of the Diogenes Club! Surely not. Not even...

I pulled open the window, ignoring the angry gust of wind that ruffled my hair and covered the expensive carpet with snow. “Sherlock! What the blazes!”

His head snapped up, and I had the feeling that he would have melted the snow with his glare had he not continued walking and disappeared from my sight moments later.

I had no wish to see my brother – Sherlock's visits always brought trouble, and always shattered my carefully constructed cocoon of routine to pieces. I wished to see him least of all when he had apparently taken leave of his senses. 

Not a minute had passed before a horrendous yell broke through the precious silence of the club, and I allowed myself a wince. Really, Cureton, the porter, could have held his tongue. But the shocking “Mr Holmes!” left no doubt as to the source of the disturbance. I was lucky indeed if my fellow members did not decide to ban me from the club. 

I could almost hear the man gather his breath again, so I rushed out of the Strangers' Room and reached the top of the staircase just in time to prevent another disturbance. 

Cureton stood in the hallway, arms akimbo, and an affronted look on his face, while brother mine knelt on the hearthrug before the crackling fire, stretching his hands out to the flames. 

I descended the stairs as quickly as was yet proper and sent the offended porter away with a wave of my hand. I was sure that my expression did mirror his. 

Sherlock was dripping on the rug, a pool of water gathering around his knees. His hair was plastered to his skull with wetness, and his white shirt was almost translucent. His bundle was as soaked as the clothes on his body. 

I cleared my throat, and he looked up, unperturbed by my menacing growl. “Don't fuss, Mycroft.”

At least he had the good grace to lower his voice – but the damage was done. 

“Come.” I snatched up the bundle with one hand and dragged Sherlock to his feet with the other. I had not treated the fool as harshly since he emptied a bucket of icy water, which he had fetched from the nearly frozen pond, over my head at fifteen years of age. I hauled him up the stairs and into my private rooms, almost slamming the door behind me. The bundle I dropped right then and there, to have a free hand – my little brother had never more justly deserved a slap. 

“What the blazes is wrong with you, Sherlock? Have you lost your mind? Walking about in a weather such as this, and in your shirtsleeves!” He stared at me defiantly, and I released his arm. “I don't know what I should do with you. Really, Sherlock, disturbing your fellow citizens! I shall be banned from the Diogenes for that yell – I, a founding member!”

Sherlock's face was red from the cold, and I could not tell if he at least had the decency to flush. However, he cast down his eyes and, without saying a word, crossed the room to the fireplace, where a modest fire was lit. There, he fell into my favourite chair, and looked for the life of me like a sulking child, rubbing his arm where I had held him. Would that he had received a bruise because of it!

I heaved a sigh. “Well, little brother, what do you want? Heavens, Sherlock! Get up this instant! The furniture! Get in there and change, a dressing gown is on the chair.”

My outcry had startled him, much to my surprise, and he trod into the other room without protest, taking his soaked bundle with him. I was sure I would later find it on the bed, but I did not follow him. 

Sherlock emerged moments later, wrapped in my white, fluffy dressing gown, which practically swallowed his thin frame, and running a hand through his unruly hair. Much to my relief, he had left his soaked boots with all the other clothes, and stood barefooted on the soft carpet. 

I disliked the notion of someone wearing my favourite item of clothings, but it was better than risking damage to the carpet and ensuring an eviction from the club. 

“What in heaven's name is the matter, Sherlock?”

Brother mine looked up at me, his usually sparkling eyes dulled. “Are you quite finished now, Mycroft?” He did not call me 'brother'. He never did when he was angry. Oh my. 

I rubbed the bridge of my nose as he settled down on the armchair again, drawing up his knees towards his chest. That could not be comfortable. “What do you want, Sherlock? Don't you have anything to do?”

“No.”

“What, then? I am not enjoying this game, Sherlock.”

“Neither do I. Give me the money to pay for a room in a hotel, and I shall be out of your way in a matter of minutes.”

“I'm not lending you money again, little brother! Take up a decent job!”  
He stared at me, and suddenly something else registered. The cold had to be slowing my mind. 

“Why would you want a hotel room? You had found lodgings in Montague Street, hadn't you? That was three months ago.”

“For someone with your deductive abilities, you are remarkably slow tonight, Mycroft.” He hugged his knees, not looking very superior despite his words. In fact, now that the flush had lessened, his face was dreadfully pale, his prominent cheekbones more pronounced, dark circles shadowing his eyes. 

“Your landlady threw you out.” I sat down. This was going to be a long day.

“Quite.”

“What did you expect, Sherlock? You are an infuriating tenant.”

“Am I?” His gaze remained locked on the flames. “I could not pay the rent. Therefore, she threw me out. Gave me five minutes to pack. She won't let me back in.”

“Now you expect me to pay the rent.”

“I haven't come to beg, Mycroft. In fact, I wouldn't have come at all, if not for the recent turn of the weather.”

“When _exactly_ did she throw you out?”

“A fortnight ago.”

“A fortnight! For pity's sake!” I fell back into my chair, drained of all energy. To imagine that little brother mine had been roaming the streets of London for fourteen days without a shelter... My late mother would have turned in her grave had she known that any of our family would ever sink so low. 

“May I stay the night, brother?”

Sherlock's timid voice was enough to startle any man out of his reverie. “Of course you must stay! Really, Sherlock, I have no intention of ever standing at your grave!” I felt the angry pinch of an oncoming headache and rubbed my forehead, irritated. “Get your bundle, it has to dry. Tomorrow, I will go to Montague Street and pay your rent for four month in advance – at least the cold will be over by then. I trust that your appreciation for snow has lessened.”

He smirked. “It has not, brother mine.”

I stayed as well, of course. In fact, I would have been surprised if the door to the club could be opened at all – but apparently, all other members had gone home, in one way or another. It was very quiet, more so than usual. 

Sherlock was occupying the bed, of course. I could hardly refrain from offering it to the fool, who had not slept in a decent bed for fourteen days. Besides, I was quite comfortably dosing in my armchair, warmed by the fire. 

The bed was not the best at any rate, but sufficient for irritating little brothers. 

I slept well, woken only once by an icy gust of air that penetrated even the closed windows and the shutters. In the morning, I fully expected Sherlock either to be up or gone already; after all, the snowing had stopped. London was covered by a thick, white blanket – not that there was anything romantic to that prospect. 

I threw open the bedroom door to attend to my morning toilette, and found myself startled for the second time in two days. Sherlock was still there. Still huddled under the blanket, his face buried in the cushion and the soft fabric of my dressing gown. 

He had murmured something unintelligible at my less-than-quiet entrance, but did not stir from his curled position. 

“Don't you think, Sherlock, that it is time to rise?”

“Go away, Mycroft.”

“You are forgetting that you are sleeping in my bed. And I want you out of it this instant.”

He ignored me. He actually dared to ignore me!

“Sherlock!” I thundered, as loudly as it was possible without disturbing the silence of the club. “Get up this instant!”

With young Sherlock, this would have worked. The grown-up version was far more defiant. He did not even flinch. In fact, he snored. Asleep? That was strange.

I walked around the bed to get a better look at him. His eyes were closed, but his rest was uneasy at best. I didn't need to place my hand on his forehead to ascertain that he was burning up with fever. He was shivering even under the warm blanket. Wonderful.  


“Fool! You should have come immediately.”

He woke as I touched his shoulder, peering up at me with a perfectly miserable expression. “Just leave me alone.”

“You are ill!”

“Yes. How clever of you to state the obvious. Leave me alone. The role of the worried brother is not becoming to you.” His voice was hoarse, but nonetheless dripping with sarcasm.

“Very well. As you wish. I assume medical help is not appreciated.”

“Get out, Mycroft!”

I slammed the door behind myself, highly annoyed. I was getting a headache already. “Well.” Of course I had planned to spend the day at the Diogenes – I was not so foolish as to try my luck in the frozen, ankle-deep masses of white death – but it did not seem the best course of action now. Sherlock was insufferable when well and sane; in his current state, it was better to be as far away from him as possible. Therefore, I decided to tempt fate and walk across the corner to Whitehall, to get some work done. Sherlock was a member after all; he was well able to take care of himself as long as the staff was there to do his bidding.

I managed to return to the club in the evening without broken bones, frostbite or bruises from a fall. However, I wasn't delighted to find that Sherlock was still there, and had apparently not moved from the bed. It was unbearably hot in my rooms, but he was hidden under a gigantic pile of blankets, and still shivering. He seemed to be drifting in and out of sleep, but never enough to actually recognise my presence. I found his fever to be considerably high, if stable.

Long ago, I trained myself to turn of any brotherly concern for my reckless sibling – if I hadn't, it would have driven my mad by the time Sherlock turned four. Yet I could hardly ignore the worry when he was lying before me, so obviously ill and miserable. I sat on the edge of the bed as carefully as it was possible – the mattress was too hard anyway to cause great disturbance – and woke him. “Sherlock.”

He snuggled against my cool fingers for a moment before his eyes flickered open and he retreated deeper into the blankets. “What do you want.” His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, I suspected he hardly saw me. There was no emphasis at all in his words.

“Is there anything I can bring you?”

“A cure for the common cold?”

I chuckled despite myself. “I'm not a medical man, but I believe there is none, Sherlock.”

“Lower, please.”

“I should leave you to your rest.” I rose to go, but his sinewy arm shot out from the mess of blankets, closing around my wrist. How he managed that was beyond me.

“Don't go.”

“I'll only catch that wretched sickness myself. And with the present state of political affairs, the mess at Whitehall, it would be hazardous. Go back to sleep.”

“Please, Mycroft? Please stay.” 

He knew well that I have never been able to resist that particular tone, curse it! “Very well. But don't you think I shall sit here all night. I want to get some sleep as well.”

“Do you know the saying that a sick man is like a child?”

“I do.”

He sniffed. “Remember when we were young?”

I rather thought he was jumping from one subject to another, but who could comprehend my brother's mind, even when he was not ill. “Of course.”

A smile tucked at the corners of his mouth. “You used to... always, when I was not feeling well... It helped me sleep.”

I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. A child, indeed. I was getting too old for such nonsense. “Oh, very well. Let me go – I'll lock the door.”

I would never have heard the end of it if any of the fellow members, or one of the staff, found us.

After turning the key in the lock, I returned to the bed, easing my younger sibling up until he was resting against my chest, and I leaning against the headboard. At least I had the foresight to change into my spare dressing gown before waking Sherlock. I would never have felt comfortable in such a position, wearing a suit. Carefully, I tugged the blankets around both of us. 

Sherlock shifted, pressing his icy feet against my calf, and moving his head around my bulk as if I was a cushion. Then he lay still once again.

I placed one arm around his shoulder to prevent him from falling out of the small bed. “Better?”

“Hmm.”

“Rest.” I rocked him softly as I had done when he was still a boy until he was asleep once more. He effectively had trapped me, for every movement caused him to stir and moan, but I could not rightly say that I minded. It is rare that we share moments of true brotherly affection. Sherlock seldom lets anyone inside the wall of emotional detachment he has built around myself, and I have my pride as well. If he was sick enough to allow it, so be it. 

At Christmas Eve, Sherlock had recovered as far as to join me in the armchairs before the fire. 

“When shall you leave, brother mine?”

He regarded me with a frown, then the bowl of sweets on my lap. “Do you want to get rid of me, Mycroft?”

“By no means – only to find you on my doorstep tomorrow, dying of pneumonia? Heavens, no.”

He chuckled softly. “I thought so.”

“Of course you did.”

* * *

Several years later, I walked through the dimly lit Baker Street on a Christmas Eve. This time, there were only very few flakes glittering in the gaslight, and they melted instantly on the pavement. I had ventured out into the night in an effort to escape the less than silent Christmas celebration at the club. 

My landlady was having guests – her whole family, in fact – so there was no peace to be got anywhere but on the deserted streets.

Little brother's first-floor window was brightly lit, not even the blind was drawn. I could see the good doctor's shadow move about from my position on the pathway on the other side of the street. I assumed that Sherlock would never be bothering me again around Christmas, no matter what circumstances, as long as his fellow lodger was there.

I shuddered in the cold chill and walked on, carefully setting one foot before the other. The warmth was treacherous, the ground was still slippery on occasion. 

Suddenly, a cry from above: “Holmes?!” 

Naturally, I stopped, although I realised immediately that it had not been I who had been addressed by Dr Watson, currently peering out of the now-open window. 

In one fluent, cat-like movement, my brother joined him. He was well then, and in a joyous mood. Curious enough for him to be in good spirits during a holiday – usually, the lack of work crushed any festive feelings in my brother. I struggled not with boredom, but with the annual disruption of my routine. Whitehall was closed. The club was noisy. And I was going for a walk. I must have sunk low indeed. 

“Why, hullo, Mycroft!”

I nodded curtly at his bellowing. He was almost beaming, for Sherlock's measures of facial expressions, anyway. His cheeks were flushed with the heat of the fire I could see flickering behind the steady light of the gas lamps. Maybe one or two drinks as well. Years ago, I would never have thought that my little brother would ever look so respectable, _grown-up_ , normal, at ease, even. Not even when he was ill. 

“Sherlock.”

“Are your fellows at the Diogenes getting on your nerves?”

“Well...”

“Tut, tut, Mycroft! Wandering about in the chill!” I could see Sherlock's smirk even from across the street and against the light. 

Watson turned to look at him briefly. “I say, Holmes.” He stood by his side as if he had ever belonged there. “Mr Holmes, would you care to join us?”

A good soul indeed, that medico. I cleared my throat. “You wouldn't mind?” I was never one for company – after all, I had founded a club that discouraged social contact – but I much preferred the calm sitting room of Baker Street and its two occupants to the hustle bustle at the club or my own lodgings, for that matter. And it was getting deucedly cold. 

“No, indeed,” answered the doctor, sincere and friendly, as always. 

“Well, I suppose I do have some time,” I said, in an effort of preserving my dignity in front of my younger sibling. 

“You are very welcome.” No doubt Dr Watson was the kindest and most patient man I have ever known. How else could he put up with my infuriating brother?

Sherlock had disappeared from the window by the time I had crossed the street, and I assumed I would hear him calling for their landlady presently, but to my surprise, it was he who opened the door. 

“Mrs Hudson is spending Christmas with her niece,” he supplied by means of explanation to my unspoken question. He may not know as much as I do, but Sherlock certainly is one of the few individuals who follow my train of thought with ease, even if I sometimes have to explain my conclusions to him. I suppose I should have been proud. After all, it was I who taught him to use his faculties. 

Now, Sherlock was racing up the stairs with his usual energy, taking two steps at a time. I followed with more dignity. 

As I had already divined, a fire was blazing in the fireplace, and the room was filled with the odour of fresh tobacco smoke – Sherlock's pipe, no doubt – and the scent of a freshly opened bottle of brandy. 

Dr Watson greeted me with his usual warmth after he had closed the window, although it was not hard to deduce that his old wounds did not agree well with the present turn for cold weather. Sherlock flicked a worried gaze in his direction as Watson limped back to his chair and the blanket waiting for him, but the doctor handled it with ease. “Pray, take a chair, Mr Holmes.”

“Do call me Mycroft, Doctor. It is bad enough that I start every time I hear of Sherlock elsewhere.”

Brother mine flashed his fellow lodger a grin, and passed me a glass of brandy after we were all settled around the fire. 

At safe distance from the fireplace, there sat two parcels on the hearthrug – presents, apparently. How very interesting. A bowl of sweets was also there, but Sherlock bent down to pick it up and throw one colourfully wrapped piece of chocolate to the doctor, before he passed one to me and even took one himself. 

“Well, brother mine, what did bring you to Baker Street?”

“You have already deduced it – the Christmas celebration has driven me from the club.”

Watson chuckled. “Do forgive me, Mycroft. I find it hard to imagine a Christmas celebration in a club where no one speaks to the other.”

“That's just the crux of the matter. All rules are out of the window for the celebration.”

“That was not the case a few years ago,” said Sherlock.

“No, it was not. It is part of the campaign to attract younger members.”

“I see.” He was smirking again. 

This time, I could actually see why. “But I do not wish to dwell on my predicament. I say, little brother, is it not a little early for presents?”

Sherlock flushed. He had always disliked it when I called him 'little brother', especially in the company of others. 

But the doctor had the tact to ignore our bickering. “We have made a habit out of staying up all night till morning on Christmas, I fear.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Pray, tell me, brother mine, what you can deduce of the contents of the parcel on the left?”

Watson was about to intervene, but my brother shook his head. “Go on. Picking up is not allowed, of course.”

My curiosity piqued, I regarded the parcel more closely. It was wrapped in unremarkable, brownish paper, almost square-shaped, much like the other, without any distinguishing features. “Well, I can tell that is has been packed by Dr Watson – you had trouble with the cord, due to your stiff shoulder, if you don't mind me saying so, Doctor. But as to the contents, I cannot say anything.”

“Ha!” Sherlock smiled at the doctor's surprised face. “I told you so. The featureless thing is hardest to unravel. The ordinary shape robs an accurate reasoner from any point of inference. Nothing is harder to discern than the commonplace, my dear fellow.”

“I see. I confess I thought you were humouring me.”

“Not so! You see, Mycroft, we agreed on this particular shape to heighten the suspense.”

It came as no surprise to me – as children, we had a very similar system between each other. However, it occurred to me than, that Sherlock was lucky. He was not, I freely admit, blessed with a long-suffering sibling, but in Dr Watson, he seemed to have found a friend who was as good as that. 

When I looked out of the window later that evening, warmed by the fire and relaxed in the company of my brother and the man he seemed to have integrated into the family as efficiently as if he had been a member from the first, and saw the large, white flakes sailing down from Heaven, I thought that for once, they were actually quite beautiful. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ The drawing is actually the closest I've got so far to the image I have of Sherlock in my head. It is still not perfect, and he does look young here, so it would not be suitable for a Sherlock in the company of Watson, but it fits the fic very well :D


End file.
